


The Many Adventures...

by Photogirl1890



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 23:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8642068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Photogirl1890/pseuds/Photogirl1890
Summary: B'Elanna, Tom, and their relationship from the perspective of one of their closest confidants.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Delwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delwin/gifts).



> A Thanksgiving gift for Delwin.
> 
> A big thank you to CaptAcorn for beta-ing this one. Also to Missyhissy3 for the read throughs. 
> 
> Please suspend disbelief before reading.

 

**1.**

It’s dark when I first wake up. Strong, warm hands surround me, lifting me into the light.

“Hmm,” the owner of those hands says to me. “I thought you’d be a little bigger.”

She tips me upside down, squeezes my stomach with her thumbs – _ouch! –_ then flips me back around, stroking my back with her fingers for a moment. Looking at her clothes, I see the Federation emblem pinned to the front of her black and gold jacket: a Starfleet combadge on a Starfleet uniform.

Raising me up towards her face, her lips curve up into a soft smile. I think she might be Klingon – which is weird, given the uniform. But those brow ridges suggest she has at least one Klingon parent. Unless she’s a Starfleet spy, about to go on an undercover mission to the Empire, and the forehead is fake. Maybe I’m going too, to help her blend in!

“I really don’t remember you being this small,” the woman remarks.

Small? I don’t _feel_ small. I may not be an apex predator, but I do have mean-looking tusks at the sides of my mouth and some intimidating spikes running down my back! I saved three young koalas from an angry duck-billed platypus in _Toby Goes Down Under_! So what if I wrote the book myself? That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

The woman’s combadge chirps. _“Carey to Lieutenant Torres.”_

Tapping the badge, she replies: “Torres here.”

_“I’m sorry to disturb you, B’Elanna, but we still can’t isolate that power drain in auxiliary impulse control. Did you want to come back to Engineering and take a look?”_

B’Elanna – so that’s her name, and it’s definitely Klingon – heaves an exasperated sigh. “I’ll be there shortly,” she replies (shortly), lowering the hand that holds me. As she turns, I get a better view of my new surroundings: an officer’s quarters on a starship, I conclude.

We move towards a door. Halfway there, she stops in her tracks and peers down at me. “I think I’d better come back for you,” she murmurs, and I’m swiftly deposited on the sofa. She pauses to adjust my posture so that my trotters are planted downwards and I’m facing out into the room. I see a wistfulness in her expression as she stares at me for a long, drawn out moment. And then, with a slight shake of her head, she snorts a laugh before leaving me. The lights snap out as the door hisses shut behind her.

Later, she returns. After ordering herself a salad from that contraption in the wall that I awoke in, she wanders across to the sofa and sits down beside me. “Well, Neelix says that baby Naomi already has about a gazillion stuffed toys,” she remarks dryly, ingesting a forkful of green and red leaves that make for a very un-Klingon-like meal. “You’ll look even smaller next to the metre-high Flotter doll and the life-sized Alfarian that Sam has to find room for.”

A lesser targ would be developing an inferiority complex right about now.

She doesn’t speak to me again, but picks up a PADD from the arm of the sofa and reads as she finishes her dinner. Then, with her plate in one hand and me in the other, she heads towards that recess in the wall. I fear I’m about to return to the darkness from whence I came, but it is only the empty plate and used utensils that suffer such a terrible fate.

B’Elanna carries me to her bed. She sets me down beside her pillow. Crossing her arms tightly across her chest, she gives me that pensive, wistful look again. Then another soft smile leads to a further snort of laughter.

“Let’s keep this arrangement between ourselves, shall we?” she says, shaking her head.

Hmm, I’m definitely starting to feel a little inferior…

* * *

 

**2.**

“Grenade!” I’m stuck in a confined space next to a kriffing stun grenade!

There I was this morning, minding my own business in my usual spot at the head of B’Elanna’s bed when she dumped her overnight bag on top of the covers. Two minutes later, I found myself buried alive. Ever since I woke up in that machine (or is it a magical portal?) that B’Elanna calls a ‘replicator’ I’ve been more than a little claustrophobic. I have nightmares about this kind of thing – minus the explosives…

Somehow, as B’Elanna packed, I was gathered up amongst the spare clothes and boots and became an accidental passenger. I’m going on my first away mission. If I wasn’t shut in the dark and afraid of being turned into nothing but fluff by a premature detonation, I’d be excited. I’ve been stuck in her quarters for months. Why does she even need to take a stun grenade? We’re going on a two-day geological survey mission with Commander Chakotay, not tasked with defusing a riot!

Stowed in my prison in the rear (I assume) of the shuttle, I rely on my superior hearing to figure out what’s going on in the cockpit. I can tell by the _Drake_ ’s rough take-off that Chakotay is at the helm. B’Elanna has mentioned his questionable piloting skills several times in her personal logs.

There’s a lot of technical talk between them that I don’t understand. The shuttle jumps to warp and then Chakotay says: “You and Tom Paris have been spending a lot of time together lately.”

B’Elanna snaps out her reply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. It’s just an observ–”

“I hardly think Tom and I hanging out around the pool in Neelix’s resort program _with Harry in tow_ counts as ‘spending a lot of time together’.”

“Then why are you getting so defensive?”

“And Vorik’s tagged along with us a few times. There’s nothing romantic about an evening in _his_ company.”

“I’m just making conversation, B’Elanna.”

“You were making an insinuation.”

“I was not.”

A pause. Then B’Elanna speaks again. “I could say the same about you and Janeway. Sailing on Lake Como last week, was it? Just the two of you?”

“The Captain doesn’t look at me the way Paris looks at you.”

“So you _were_ making an insinuation!”

Chakotay chuckles. “I just wanted to make sure you were aware of his … interest.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“If you say so.”

There’s another pause, then Chakotay continues in a softer and more serious tone: “You know, you’re more … balanced now than I think I’ve ever seen you. I’d hate to see anything disrupt that.”

Maybe this is why B’Elanna brought the stun grenade. I’m expecting at least verbal fireworks now, but, when B’Elanna’s reaction eventually comes, it’s surprisingly restrained. “Thanks for your concern,” she says. I can almost hear her teeth grinding, can almost feel her fingernails burying themselves in her palms. Then she switches the subject, offering a casual, “Hoverball tomorrow night?”

“Sure.”

I’d grin if my mouth could move. Chakotay is going to get annihilated on that court.

They discuss the mission. We’re one of several away teams that Captain Janeway has sent out to investigate possible gallicite deposits. Soon dropping out of warp, we continue our journey at impulse. The micrometeroid cloud we encounter is anticipated. The failure of the _Drake_ ’s dorsal shields halfway through said cloud is not. An alarm starts to whine and the shuttle’s computer warns us of our impending doom. “They told me they fixed it!” B’Elanna snaps. “We’re going to get pulverised if we don’t decrease our velocity.” It sounds like the hull is being pelted with hailstones, even though the particles in the cloud are very much less massive than those frozen balls of water.  

“Disengaging impulse drive,” Chakotay states. “Hang on!”

The abrupt deceleration throws my canvas prison into a tumble. Fortunately, I don’t have any bones to break or a stomach to empty. But I really hope the pin on that grenade is jammed in tight…

“Great,” B’Elanna says, as the alarm is muted and the computer ceases its fretting. “We’re stuck here. Manoeuvring on thrusters alone we’d take weeks to clear this cloud.”

“Can you divert power from the forward shields to compensate?” Chakotay asks.

“If I thought that would work I’d have done it already.”

“What exactly is the problem?”

“Ballard and Chell were supposed to have replaced a burned out field emitter coil in the dorsal array. Clearly they didn’t. Now we’ll just have to sit here until _Voyager_ can come pick us up. Damn it. We could have been killed.”

“It was a close call,” Chakotay agrees.

As B’Elanna works to ensure that none of the microfractures in the hull will become all-out breaches, we float uselessly amongst the planetary debris, waiting for the rescue that Chakotay calls in.

This is some first away mission. I was hoping to breathe some unrecycled air – metaphorically speaking, of course. But I haven’t even seen the inside of this shuttle. Still, I have learned a few interesting titbits. And I’m left with some unanswered questions. Like – what’s the story with B’Elanna and Tom Paris? I’ve heard mention of him in her logs, but she’s never commented about the way he looks at her. Is Chakotay imagining things? He does quite a bit of that on those ‘spirit walks’ of his, so I wouldn’t put it past him.

When we’re safely retrieved by _Voyager_ , B’Elanna and I head straight to Engineering. There’s a hum of machinery and humanoid chatter that, compared to the long hours of silence I spend in B’Elanna’s quarters, sounds to me like we’ve strayed onto a _cha’qu’_ farm. Ballard and Chell are summoned to the chief engineer’s office: I don’t think they’ll be neglecting their duties again for a while.

Back in B’Elanna’s quarters, she dumps her bag down on the bed. I soon hear the sonic shower starting up. It clicks off a long while later. Then the rumble of the bag’s zipper somewhere above my head precedes a weight lifting off me and bright light dazzling my beady eyes.

“What the… How did you end up in there?” B’Elanna asks me, incredulous.

Well, it’s not as if I climbed in myself, is it?

Her fingers close around my flanks and I’m finally back out in the open. “You thought you’d stow away, huh?” she quips, and then, more thoughtfully, says, “I guess you were my lucky charm today. Maybe I should take you along on every away mission.”

Is she joking? I think she might be serious. She looks serious – but then she often does. I’m definitely up for some more adventuring. We targs are natural wanderers. Social animals. B’Elanna so rarely has visitors. I get bored. It’s not good for my grey matter.

Please, please, please, don’t be joking.

* * *

**3.**

B’Elanna is dressed to impress. It’s not as if it’s the first time I’ve seen her take care over her appearance, but tonight she’s taken longer than usual to select an outfit from the closet that holds her off-duty clothing. Maybe that’s what two near-death experiences in the space of four days does to a person. The closest I came to that was a few months ago when the Nygeans took over the ship and the couple who claimed B’Elanna’s quarters both mistook me for some kind of novelty loofah. It didn’t make me any more interested in fashion, but I did feel a strong wish to shed my fur and replace it with a coat of quills like one of those cool Earth porcupines. On the plus side, I did get to see what B’Elanna’s bathroom looks like.

I don’t know where B’Elanna is going this evening. One of Neelix’s frequent parties, I guess. Though now she’s ordering something from that replicator thingy. A bottle of wine: not bloodwine but one of those weak-as-water human varieties that she likes to drink. She could be taking it to the party. No, now she’s got two glasses and she’s setting her dining table for dinner. Dinner for two? How unusual. She’s never had anyone over for a meal before now.

“Computer,” she commands, “display all public replicator files in the category of food added by Lieutenant Paris.”

Huh. So, Tom is our mystery guest? He was pretty annoyed with B’Elanna the last time I saw him, complaining about how she was behaving badly towards him, warning her that she’d be alone if that’s how she continued to treat people who tried to be her friend. Maybe she’s invited him round for dinner as an apology. Or maybe they’re celebrating the fact they didn’t asphyxiate together in those damaged EVA suits after the _Cochrane_ was destroyed. I was horrified hearing B’Elanna dictate that mission report. What would have happened to me if she’d died?

There’s a protracted pause, then a growl and an exasperated, “Oh, I don’t know…”

B’Elanna mills around, then fiddles with the placement of the bowl of scented woodchips on the coffee table. “Computer, what time is it?”

_“The time is 1855,”_ the robotic voice informs us.

Then the door mechanism chimes. B’Elanna reacts with a start and spills a few woodchips onto the carpet. Cursing, she kicks them under the sofa and moves to the door, which hisses open as she approaches.  

It’s Tom, just as I expected. B’Elanna steps aside to let him enter. Tom has a bottle of wine too. He’s also smartly dressed. His hair is damp and I can smell his cologne from here. After the door snaps shut, there’s an exchange of compliments. They share a kiss. At least I think that’s what they’re doing. I’ve never seen a pair of humanoids engage in the custom quite so enthusiastically before. And we targs have far more sophisticated ways of communicating affection – there’s a whole lexicon of grunts and whistles devoted to the subject, not to mention our pheromones.

I’m starting to worry that their lips have somehow become stuck together (B’Elanna was eating a frosted donut earlier) when their faces finally separate. From this angle, I can’t see B’Elanna’s expression, but Tom looks mightily pleased. B’Elanna must be really sorry for how she’s been treating him – and Tom is obviously feeling very forgiving.

Tom is still holding the bottle of wine he’s brought along and B’Elanna finally takes it from him. She leads the way towards the sofa – Tom grabbing the wine glasses from the dining table as he passes. They sit down on the sofa and now, thanks to my angle of view, all I can see is the back of Tom’s right shoulder.

I hear the wine – it is a fizzing variety – being opened and poured.

“Did you run into anyone on your way down here?” B’Elanna enquires.

“No,” Tom tells her. “Well, only Mortimer Harren. And he didn’t even look at me.”

Whilst I ponder why that’s relevant, B’Elanna’s hand winds around the back of Tom’s neck. There is a further prolonged silence, broken when B’Elanna asks, “Are you hungry? I couldn’t decide what to replicate for dinner.” Her voice sounds a little weird.

“I’m OK for the moment,” Tom says. He sounds strange too. More silence. “But, if _you’re_ hungry…”

“No, I’m not hungry.”

And then Tom chuckles and says, so quietly that I can barely make out his words, “I know a way we could work up an appetite.”

“Oh really?” B’Elanna responds with equal levity. “And what would that involve?”

Now their exchange of sporadic mumblings is so quiet I have no idea what either of them is saying. I just don’t get it. This isn’t normal humanoid interaction. How can neither of them be hungry? It’s dinnertime and I definitely heard B’Elanna’s stomachs grumbling not fifteen minutes ago.

The next thing I hear sounds like a groan. Maybe the wine is off. Tom is a medic. He should know what to do.

I hear movement. They’re getting up from the sofa and heading my way. What the…? B’Elanna took all that effort in dressing and now Tom seems to be helping her remove her clothes. Is he giving her a medical examination? But why would he need to be naked too?

He’s… What, in Kahless’s name, is he doing now? And she’s…

Oh no. Please no. Are they preparing to mate? I think they’re preparing to mate! But they haven’t rolled in dirt. Tom hasn’t even done the rutting dance. When did they become a bonded pair?

I can’t look. But I can’t _not_ look! Why don’t I have eyelids? I don’t want to see this! B’Elanna is like a parent to me. At least my targ parents had the decency to wander off into the forest and find a mud hole when they were in heat.

The mattress sinks under the weight of two bodies and an arm crashes into me. B’Elanna curses, lifts and turns to see what was digging into her triceps, swearing again as we lock eyes. She shoves me sideways and then I tumble, headfirst, onto the carpet at the side of the bed.

“What’s wrong?” Tom asks, breathlessly.

“Nothing,” she replies. “I was squashing Toby, that’s all.”

Tom snorts a laugh. B’Elanna giggles. It’s not funny! I could have been smothered. And she should know by now how much I hate enclosed spaces.

Then their laughter turns to other, more primal, sounds interspersed with flattering remarks, implorations, encouragements, and, most bizarrely, pleas to a human deity. I might be imagining it, but it seems like the bed, and hence the floor, has started shaking. Thankfully, the shaking stage of the proceedings doesn’t go on too long and then all I hear is the sound of laboured breathing.

“You know,” Tom says eventually, “I’m really glad we nearly died in those spacesuits.”

“Yeah,” B’Elanna replies. “So am I.”

* * *

**4.**

It’s not the same around here without Tom. I’ve hardly seen him in weeks. He hasn’t slept over for ages. I’m really starting to miss the guy. We were forming a bond.

Tom and I have a lot in common – besides an affinity for sharing B’Elanna’s bed. Like me, he’s a considerate sleeper: he never snores or steals all the covers. When B’Elanna’s out of earshot, he talks to me, asks my advice. Confides in me about things he has planned, like surprises for her: holodeck dates or gifts. He complains on my behalf about the temperature when she cranks it up to ‘the level of a Bolian sauna’. And the smell of that peanut butter stuff he gets from B’Elanna’s replicator – my mouth would water if it could.

Sure, since Tom has entered my life I’ve seen a lot of things I wish I hadn’t. I’m in a lose-lose situation when he and B’Elanna are cavorting about ‘working up an appetite’. If I have the good fortune to avoid seeing Tom’s naked nether regions it’s only because either he or B’Elanna has tossed me out of my own bed! And then I end up on the floor and sometimes I’m down there for a very dreary couple of days before one of them rescues me. But he makes B’Elanna happy. Well, he used to. Just lately, nothing makes her smile. Not even me.

On Tom’s initiative, they’d made plans to meet for dinner this evening. But then B’Elanna called Tom over the comm and said she had to work. I suspect that isn’t true because, just before that, she’d traded Chell some of her ‘replicator rations’ in exchange for two hours of his holodeck time. And that’s where she is now. On the holodeck. If she needed the holodeck for work, she wouldn’t have had to trade rations with Chell, would she? As chief engineer, she could have just commandeered it. I can only conclude that she’s gone there for fun or relaxation and is keeping that a secret from Tom. It doesn’t make sense, but then she’s not been acting like herself for a while now.

My fur tingles as a transporter beam rematerializes B’Elanna at the foot of her bed. Something is very wrong. I may not have been to Starfleet Academy, but I’ve learned a lot from the things I’ve overheard. I know it’s not normal for an officer to move around a ship in this way unless it’s crunch time: I can count on one trotter the number of times I’ve seen her disappear into thin air in order to get instantaneously to Engineering. _Voyager_ is not at red or even yellow alert, and if it was a medical emergency then surely she’d beam herself directly to the ship’s Sickbay.

I smell it before I see it. An earthy, metallic scent.

Blood.

Fresh blood.

From the back, she looks normal. A little hunched, maybe. And is she cradling her left arm? She’s cradling her left arm. Now that I think of it, the last time she went to the holodeck she came back with a bit of a limp. I never found out why.

“Computer, dim lights. Night-time setting theta.”

Kahless, she sounds terrible. Like her throat is all scratched up. I strain now to see her through the gloom.

Half-turning to check her position, she takes a step back and sits on the bottom corner of the bed, her left side nearest to me. That left arm drops limply into her lap. With a groan, she stretches forwards with her right hand, bending at the waist. Her boots, after a struggle, drop, left and then right, to the floor. She straightens then pauses, puffing short breaths through gritted teeth.

Slowly, she stands and shrugs off her jacket. Her arms now bare, I can see where the left has been damaged. The skin around her elbow is abraded and bruised.

Removing the rest of her clothes is a painstaking process. She muffles a cry as she pulls her dark tank top over her head. There is blood on her torso. A long but (presumably) superficial laceration crosses her navel in a diagonal from rib cage to hip bone. Her upper lip is split and swollen, her left eye puffy and ringed with black. More blood stains the skin beneath her nose and covers her chin. There are red marks around her neck. She looks like she’s had to battle her way out of a Gornian gladiator pit!

Maybe she has. Holodecks are amazing inventions. The adventures one can have in them are limited only by the imagination of the program’s author. But there are safety protocols to prevent serious injuries occurring. I’ve heard Tom talk about how the ‘safeties’ have prevented him from skiing right off the side of a mountain. So how has B’Elanna ended up in this mess? Why hasn’t she gone to see the Doctor – or if she doesn’t want to go to Sickbay, why doesn’t she at least seek help from Tom? Tom would be horrified to see her in this state.

Hmm. But then she’d have to admit that she hasn’t been working this evening. That she lied to him earlier.    

She hobbles off towards the bathroom. The shower powers on. She’s running a water shower (I have a unpleasant flashback to the Nygeans) and, whilst the water does not flow for long, she takes her time returning to the main room. When she does reappear, it’s with a glass of water in hand. She is clean now and smells only of soap and shampoo. As she changes from her robe into her nightwear, I can see that the cut across her navel has healed over. In fact, she no longer has any visible wounds. But the evidence of her injuries remains in the way she carries herself, in the pain she wears on her face and in her eyes. Whatever gadget she’s used to heal her skin, it hasn’t had much of an effect on the underlying damage: she still needs medical attention.

She sets her empty glass down on the floor beside the bed. Then, collapsing on top of the bedcovers, she curls up on her side, knees pulled into her chest, her head lying heavy on the pillow next to me.

“Computer,” she rasps, “increase ambient temperature by three degrees.”

There’s still a little blood beneath her fingernails – that’s what draws my eye as she stretches out a hand to embrace me, pulling me into the warm hollow between her shoulder and her chin. I should be happy that I’m getting some attention. But I can’t be happy, not in these circumstances.

I miss Tom.

And I miss B’Elanna too.

* * *

**5.**

B’Elanna sits cross-legged in the middle of her bed, palms resting on her knees. Her eyes are closed, her posture rigid, and her breaths deep and even. It’s only a minute – two, at most – before she sighs, her hands bunch into fists, and her eyes snap open. Her gaze lands directly onto me.

“What are you looking at?” she asks. She coughs a mirthless laugh, but there’s no anger in her tone.

It’s a very good question. I really have no idea what she’s doing. Her immediate post-shift wind-down routine more usually involves a sonic shower, some reading, a glass of wine or a mug of coffee. Sometimes she listens to music. But over the last few days – since her mission to that Malon freighter – it’s been this as soon as she comes home. What the kriff is this all about?

She picks me up and holds me at face level. “You think I look ridiculous, don’t you?”

Then her combadge bleeps and I’m promptly set back down.

It’s Tom. _“Are you busy?”_

“Not too busy to see you,” she tells him.

That cheers me no end. After all she and Tom have been through this past year, my heart swells at even the tiniest display of affection between them – as long as they’re clothed whilst sharing that affection, of course.

_“What are you doing?”_ Tom queries.

“Come on over and I’ll show you.”

_“Hmm.”_ I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s smirking. _“That sounds intriguing.”_

B’Elanna rolls her eyes. “Don’t get excited. It’s nothing fun.”

_“Oh.”_ I can literally hear his face falling. _“Well, I’ll be right there.”_

Earlier this year, when B’Elanna was doing crazily dangerous things on the holodeck and didn’t want to spend time with anyone but me, I thought their relationship was done for. I worried that I’d never see Tom again! But B’Elanna had some kind of illness in her brain that affected her behaviour. It was sparked when she found out that her Maquis friends had been killed in the Alpha Quadrant. I forget what the illness was called. Mourning sickness? Something like that. Anyway, Tom made allowances for the lies she’d spun and for the attitude she’d shown him. Slowly, over a number of weeks – and thanks to a lot of long and awkward conversations – they patched things up. Tom has resumed the habit of sleeping over with us. B’Elanna spends nights in Tom’s quarters. I panicked during the month in which Tom didn’t show up here at all, but it turns out that nasty Captain Janeway had imprisoned him in the brig for defying her orders – even though Tom was clearly in the right! He and B’Elanna weren’t allowed to even speak to each other for a whole thirty days. I got a lot of extra hugs during those four and a bit weeks.

By the time Tom strolls in a few minutes later, B’Elanna has adjourned to the sofa.

“So, what did I interrupt?” Tom asks eagerly, glancing around the room as the door shuts behind him. I don’t need telepathy to know that he’s still hoping that it is, in fact, something both exciting and fun.

“I’ve been trying to meditate,” B’Elanna explains. “And I’m failing. Miserably. As always.”

Meditate? The floating in the air thing? No wonder she’s failing. Neither humans nor Klingons have telekinesis, and B’Elanna has never shown any signs of having magical powers.

“Hmm.” Tom joins her on the sofa. Unlike B’Elanna, he’s changed out of uniform into casual attire, wearing cargo shorts and one of those garish shirts of his that should come with a warning: _May Cause Offence to Some Viewers_. “Is that even possible?”

“What?”

“To fail at meditation – I didn’t think it was a pass or fail kind of activity.”

Huh? One is either hovering over the ground or not hovering over the ground. There’s no in between. It’s definitely a ‘do or do not’ kind of thing.

“Well, I’m pretty sure I’m doing _something_ wrong,” B’Elanna tells him. “I’ve followed Tuvok’s directions to the letter, but I was calmer before I started this crap. Sitting there in silence, trying – and failing – to focus on my breathing… It makes me feel restless. Agitated. Like I have a hundred other things I could be doing with my free time.”

“How long are you supposed to meditate for?”

There’s a guilty pause. “Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?”

“ _Twice_ a day. That’s on top of my weekly session with Tuvok.”

Tom does not respond, just lets that hang for a moment.

B’Elanna heaves a sigh. “All right. I admit it’s not that much time to sacrifice. But the crux of my point still stands. It’s not exactly giving me a Vulcan hold on my emotions.”

“Is it supposed to?”

“It’s supposed to cure my bad temper.”

“You don’t need to _cure_ your temper, B’Elanna. It’s OK to be angry – especially when someone’s actions are interfering with your work. You just… might benefit from a little help so you can express that anger more… effectively.”

“Destroying the Doctor’s holocamera was very effective.”

“In the short-term maybe. But, in the long-term? Not so much.”

Now I’m totally confused. What _has_ she been up to? I didn’t hear about any incident with a holocamera. B’Elanna really needs to be more thorough when recording her personal logs. I’m forever missing out on things. Grr, I really wish I could roam freely around the ship. Though I’d be certain to give the mess hall a miss. That Neelix character will put anything into a stew...

There’s a long, drawn out pause. And then B’Elanna says to Tom, “Try it with me. Then we can both feel silly together.” She returns to the bed and resumes her previous position.

Tom trails behind her. “Won’t my being here distract you?”

“Just don’t breathe too loudly.”

Looking dubious, he kicks off his shoes and joins her on the bed.

I’ve seen them do some weird things together (in some _very_ strange positions), but this is certainly a new one.

Tom has barely assumed the requisite starting pose before he’s fidgeting. “Do we have to sit like this?”

“It’s what Tuvok suggested after I complained that kneeling was uncomfortable.”

“Can’t we lie down or something?”

“Tuvok says if I practise by lying down I might fall asleep – which, personally, I think is highly unlikely.” B’Elanna throws up her hands. “But what do I know? Tuvok’s the expert: he’s been meditating since he was a kid. Probably spends half of his off duty hours doing it.”

Of all the people to be able to fly at will! I’ve always been led to believe that Tuvok is so very dull – even by Vulcan standards. He’s gone way up in my estimation now. Maybe I can learn how to meditate too! To move one’s body with the power of the mind alone is a skill I could really use.

“So, what now?” Tom asks.

B’Elanna doesn’t answer the question. With a slump of her shoulders, she instead says, “It’s just so demeaning to be singled out like this. I’m not the only person on this ship who has a short fuse. And, given the shit I had to deal with on that disgusting Malon freighter, I think I kept my temper in check pretty fucking admirably. Chakotay even said as much. But he wasn’t impressed enough to let me off the hook.”

I wouldn’t normally say this, but I’m glad she didn’t take me on that away mission. I could have come back contaminated with theta radiation. I could have been turned into a psychotic killer like that Malon core labourer B’Elanna had to fight! Oh, the horror! It doesn’t bear thinking about.

Tentatively, Tom reaches out a hand to link with B’Elanna’s. “And how do you know you’re the only person that Tuvok has been asked to help?”

She frowns. “If anyone else had been sent to him I’d have heard about it.”

“Would you?”

“It’s a small ship. And I’m a senior officer.”

“Tuvok’s quarters are nowhere near yours – and you don’t have routine access to medical records.”

“What are you saying? That the Doctor has been prescribing meditation sessions? For whom?”

“You know I’m not supposed to comment on anything I might have learned through my Sickbay duties.”

“But, you’re saying there have been others?”

“B’Elanna…” Tom smiles apologetically.

“You _are_ saying that. You wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise.” Slowly, her features relax, frown morphing into a twitch of a smile. “I guess that does make me feel a little better.”

I wonder if Tom has put the idea into B’Elanna’s head just to make her feel better. Has Tuvok really been teaching others to meditate? Have the others become proficient in the technique? Do they hover in their quarters, no longer bound by the constrictions of gravity? The mind boggles.

“So, I’m not as special as I thought I was, huh?” B’Elanna adds.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Tom responds, leaning in for a brief but reciprocated kiss.

And my fluffy little heart melts again.

* * *

 

**6.**

It’s my first away mission in months and the _Flyer_ has crashed on the side of a mountain – a mountain on a planet where the natives are still living in the Bronze Age. It’s like _Toby Goes Chariot Racing_ all over again – except the Ancient Greeks had iron, and I’m not harnessed to a two-wheeled death trap.

As usual, I’m stuck in B’Elanna’s kitbag. This time, however, I can peek through the opening in the top of the bag and see out into the interior of the _Flyer_. I think B’Elanna almost forgot to bring me along on this trip. Tom came by as she was packing. He can be very distracting.

I suppose there are worse planets on which to crash land. We’re not freezing or boiling to death here and the air is breathable. The natives, if Kelis is anything to go by, are at least vaguely cultured: they have clothing and poetry, at any rate. But their idea of medicine leaves a lot to be desired. After Kelis let blood from B’Elanna’s forearm in an attempt to break her fever, I simply didn’t know what to expect next. Leeches? Trepanation? Ear-candling? Thankfully, B’Elanna woke up before I had to find out. She would have killed him if he’d gotten wax in her hair.

That was some knock she took to the head when we crashed into the mountain. She was unconscious for eight days. I was terrified that she’d never wake up. Sure, there were some occasional bouts of delirious rambling (she called Tom’s name a lot) when her eyes flickered open and she fidgeted a bit, but, even then, she wasn’t aware of her surroundings. During those moments, Kelis would hold a cup of water to her lips in an effort to get her to drink. Half of it trickled down her chin, but she swallowed enough to avoid dying from dehydration.

Kelis is here now. He’s returned from his patron’s hunting grounds with the dilithium crystals B’Elanna sent him to find. The thunderstorm raging outside has left the poet soaked to the skin, and he’s very inconsiderately dripping water all through the _Flyer_. As if we didn’t have enough to deal with in here! A flood is all we need!

“Tell me about Tom Paris,” Kelis says to B’Elanna. Whilst she works on repairs, B’Elanna is giving him ideas for his next play. Kelis makes notes on strips of parchment. I don’t know what sort of animal the skin used to belong to, but, whatever the case, it is so _so_ creepy!

“He’s a pilot,” B’Elanna replies. “ _Voyager_ ’s helmsman. He steers the ship.”

“But what is he _like_?”

“Well,” her lips curve up into a smile, “he’s… very perceptive. Usually.” She bites thoughtfully on her lip. “He has a wild imagination. He’s always thinking of ways to make life on _Voyager_ more fun. And he’s always willing to give people a second chance. We–”

“Did your attraction to him blossom at first sight?”

B’Elanna snorts. “Not exactly.” And then it’s like a black cloud passes over her face. She snaps, “But that’s completely irrelevant to your story.”

Kelis is intrigued by her reaction. “So you disliked him when first you met?” He takes her silence as a yes. “And was that feeling mutual? How did he win your heart? Or did the burden of amorous pursuit fall more heavily upon your shoulders? How does a romance grow between two Eternals?”

“Pass me that hydrospanner,” B’Elanna demands. “That small metal object,” she explains with pointed finger when the poet fails to act quickly enough.

Oh no. I hope she’s not going to hit him in the face with the tool. I know he’s annoying, but we still need his help.

“Among the Eternals,” she says, through gritted teeth, “it’s considered impolite to ask so many personal questions.”

I’m not sure she’s telling the truth. I’ve heard her and Tom quite eagerly quiz Harry Kim in the past – about an alien woman named Tal and a hologram called Maggie. Though, to be fair to B’Elanna, it was Tom who begged for the most details. Poor Harry. I hope he’s all right. If his escape pod made it back to _Voyager_ then why hasn’t our rescue arrived yet?

“All right,” Kelis says. “Then tell me more about your friend, Harry Kim.”

It’s as if he’s read my mind.

I think Kelis and I would be friends in different circumstances. I appreciate the need he has to understand his characters – to establish the tiny details of their lives, even if those details do not make it onto the page or into the script. But he keeps pressing B’Elanna with more and more questions that distract her from her work. Why doesn’t he take some artistic liberties? He’s not writing a documentary. His audience won’t know what Commander Chakotay’s tattoo really looks like or care about Captain Janeway’s childhood. And he jabbers on about ‘shining _Voyager_ this’ and ‘shining _Voyager_ that’. _Voyager_ is a starship not a kriffing lighthouse! Plus, I still can’t forgive him for tying up B’Elanna, especially given the weak state she was in at the time.

But, work with him we must if we’re going to contact _Voyager_ and get off this rock. B’Elanna may be, as Tom says, ‘an engineering genius’, but, as her efforts to meditate have shown, she’s not a magician.

When the poet departs, promising to bring more food tomorrow evening, B’Elanna heads straight towards me. She picks me up and sets me down to one side as she rummages in her bag for a clean set of underwear.  

“Hey there, Toby,” she says. “I bet you wish I’d left you behind.”

Well, I wouldn’t go that far. This certainly beats days on end spent alone in her quarters with nothing but my imagination to amuse me. And Kelis’s literary shortcomings are making me feel _so good_ about my own writing abilities – not that my confidence was lacking, but it’s always good to give it a boost.

B’Elanna strips off her clothes, puts on the fresh undergarments, and pulls her grimy uniform back on over the top of them. “What I wouldn’t give for a sonic shower right about now,” she laments.

Luckily for both of us, those Starfleet uniforms are pretty good at wicking away sweat and neutralising body odour.

I realise, as she continues to make repairs, that this mission is the first time I’ve really seen B’Elanna using that engineering genius she’s renowned for. _Voyager_ doesn’t have a ‘take your pet targ to work day’. Even if it did, I doubt B’Elanna would take me to Engineering to watch her work – not if the past three years are anything to go by.

Her efforts are a sight to behold. With an ease that suggests she could do it with her eyes shut, she delves behind panels and under the deck plates assessing and reconfiguring what she finds there. Somehow, with the crystals Kelis has brought her, B’Elanna is going to power up the _Flyer_ and transmit a message to _Voyager_. Then Tom can come flying to our rescue! If Harry makes contact with _Voyager_ first then all the better.

“A few more questions.” It’s Kelis. He’s slipped back into the shuttle.

B’Elanna curses. Springing up from where she is crouched behind a console, she turns to confront the poet. “Don’t people knock on this planet?” she yells.

“Knock?” Kelis asks, his tone confused.

“Never mind,” B’Elanna sighs out. “What is it that can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“About Seven of Nine…” he begins. And then he spots me. “What is _that_?” His eyes widen. An ink-stained hand stretches towards me. B’Elanna waves it away.

“He’s … my lucky charm,” she tells him.

“A talisman!” Kelis says. Then his face falls. “But its magic appears to have failed you. You fell from the sky, lost your travelling companion, were cursed with a fever…”

“I’m alive, aren’t I? The impact with the ground could have killed me instantly.”

The poet’s face brightens once more. “And then I found you! I don’t usually walk this way in the springtime. Your ... charm must have drawn me here.”

I did?

Maybe I did! I am incredibly charming. Toby saves the day yet again!

“Can I touch it?” Kelis asks, reaching towards me for a second time.

“Absolutely not,” B’Elanna decrees.

And I’m promptly consigned to the bag I just emerged from.

Great. Thanks a lot, Kelis. That’s just great.

* * *

**7.**

After four years of living with B’Elanna and three years of getting to know Tom, I thought I was finally getting to grips with how their crazy brains worked.

I was mistaken.

Apparently, we’re on something called a ‘honey moon’. When I initially heard mention of this ‘honey moon’ just yesterday, I thought B’Elanna meant that the three of us would be going on a holodeck vacation to a planetary satellite with a large bee population. But this is no moon! We’re on the _Delta Flyer II_. Even more strange is the fact that we’re not travelling anywhere. _Voyager_ is a few kilometres off our stern: the rest of the crew are ‘partying hard’ with the Antarians.

It turns out that this ‘honey moon’ is some kind of ritual that many humans (and some non-humans) complete after their pair bond is legally recognised. I know all about human weddings, of course. In _Toby and the Mystery of the Missing Ring_ my young pals and I have to track down a strange goblin-like creature who has stolen Cinderella’s gold wedding band from Prince Charming’s breeches’ pocket. At the end of the story, we heroes attend the marriage ceremony in the castle. But there’s no epilogue where the happy couple go on a ‘honey moon’. They just live happily ever after.

To be honest, I’m quite relieved about the lack of melliferous insects. I once stuck my snout into a _‘aw’ghew_ nest because I couldn’t resist the smell of honey. The swarm chased me into the River Skral and I nearly drowned! I expect Terran bees are less aggressive than their Klingon equivalents, but I’m in no rush to test that theory.

B’Elanna and Tom are floating in the _Flyer_ ’s dimly lit aft compartment – in a state of undress and amorously entangled, I might add. At first, I thought they’d finally mastered meditation. But, when other things that were not fixed down started to lift off the floor too, I realised they’d disengaged the artificial gravity. Deliberately! A shoe that Tom discarded several hours ago has knocked me off my perch at the top of the mattress that covers the floor. I’ve been bouncing around the compartment for the last few minutes. I feel sick! It’s a good thing I’m physically incapable of vomiting: that would really kill the mood.

As usual when they are engaged in their idea of mating, both Tom and B’Elanna sound completely exhausted.

“Could you just…” Tom murmurs.

“Like this?” B’Elanna whispers.

My current trajectory has me drifting away from the spectacle. Kahless knows what manoeuvre they’re trying now.

“No,” Tom gasps. “That doesn’t work.”

They’re about a thousand decibels quieter here in the _Flyer_ , several kilometres from their nearest neighbour, than they are in B’Elanna’s quarters with _Voyager_ ’s seemingly paper-thin bulkheads. There’s no rhyme nor reason to their behaviour! Unfortunately, _I_ can still hear _everything_.

“Maybe if you grab that handle there,” Tom says, “and then I could… Nope.”

“Put your right hand under my knee.”

“Oh crap.”

“I didn’t say to let go with the left one!”

“Sorry.”

B’Elanna’s voice rises. “We’re not going about this … scientifically.”

“Scientifically? There’s no romance in classical mechanics.”

I spin back to face them. Yikes! How are they…? Why would she be…? And then I collide with that shoe once again. Ow!

“Why don’t you try–” She’s cut off by a thud as Tom’s head bashes into the ceiling.

“Ouch!” Tom yelps. “Why is this so damn hard? For crying out loud.”

He does, in fact, sound like he might soon shed tears.

B’Elanna heaves a sigh. “I think this was a bad idea. And I feel kind of queasy now.”

Oh, thank Kahless for that. Perhaps I’ll get my bodyweight back sooner than I’d expected.

“Me too actually. I don’t think champagne and zero-g mix very well.”

“Well, we gave it a try.”

“Yeah. I’ll take care of the gravity.”

B’Elanna gives Tom a gentle shove towards the cockpit. She, as a result, is propelled in the opposite direction. Making contact with the aft bulkhead, she reorients herself and manoeuvres her body to the floor, bracing for the reintroduction of ‘up’ and ‘down’.

I, of course, cannot move my limbs in order to prepare. When the artificial gravity returns, I fall, snout-first, like a stone to the deck, missing the soft landing zone of the mattress. Grr. So typical!

“Better?” Tom hollers from the cockpit.

“A little,” B’Elanna calls back. “You know, maybe we should eat something.” She spends a few moments tidying the things that have floated – then landed – out of place. I don’t receive any apology as I’m picked up from the floor and set back in my spot. “I’ve no idea what time it is,” she adds.

“It’s always the right time for pizza,” Tom says, wandering back from the cockpit.

“Not again,” B’Elanna grumbles.

Tom dives onto the mattress, knocking me onto my side as he lands. “Would you rather try that special casserole Neelix made for us?”

B’Elanna, staring down at him, quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t think we really need any Talaxian aphrodisiacs. Do you?”

Tom snickers. “Pizza then?”

“ _You_ can have pizza if you want. I’ll replicate myself something else.”

“You want to start our married life with separate dinners?”

“Getting married didn’t change my taste buds,” B’Elanna retorts, crossing her arms across her chest.

Grr. I really wish they’d put some clothes on.

Tom props himself up on an elbow. “Then what do you want to eat? I’ll have the same.”

B’Elanna reels off several options. After some negotiating, they settle on a Bajoran dish I’ve never heard of before. B’Elanna finally puts on her robe and moves to the replicator. Tom talks to the computer and orders up some background music. He has way better taste in audio entertainment than B’Elanna. Sometimes, when she’s relaxing in our quarters, she listens to something called an ‘audio book’. Some of the storylines are outrageous!  

When we get back to _Voyager_ we’re moving into new quarters. It’s so exciting! I’ll finally get to watch cartoons on Tom’s television! I saw a few before B’Elanna gave it to him. She told me she was checking the device worked properly. Her checks were very thorough. She spent several hours staring at the screen as four animated teenage detectives and their talking dog solved a bunch of wacky mysteries. I preferred _The Porky Pig Show_.

Given how much B’Elanna and Tom bicker, it’s going to be interesting to see how they adapt to living together so closely. What will they do if they have a big argument? Who will storm out in a temper? Who will remain for me to console?

“We should insist on a window,” B’Elanna says, passing Tom his meal and sitting down beside him with her own brimming plate. “When we speak to Chakotay about our joint quarters.”

“If he gives us one of the guest quarters on Deck Three we’ll get multiple windows.”

Multiple windows? That would be awesome! Then I wouldn’t feel so claustrophobic all the time. I would love to see the stars every day.

“He’s pretty obstinate about letting anyone use the quarters in that section though,” B’Elanna points out. “Remember when part of Deck Eight was contaminated with zeta radiation after that hull breach? Chakotay insisted on the crewmen involved camping out in the cargo bay.”

“But that was a temporary thing. This is a different situation. And where else can we go? We need quarters befitting two senior officers. And,” he pauses for a moment, “unless I’ve completely misinterpreted some of our previous conversations around the matter, we might need room for three at some point, right?”

Their eyes meet. B’Elanna laughs lightly. “Hmm. We might.”

Three? But we need room for three now!

“But let’s not mention that possibility to Chakotay,” Tom adds.

“No,” B’Elanna agrees. “Let’s keep that idea to ourselves.”

“Between ourselves and Toby,” Tom says, chuckling as he nudges me with an elbow. “I bet he’d love to be put to a good use.”

What? I’m useful already. They’d be lost without me!

Oh no. I think they mean… Do they mean that they’re going to _breed_? I assumed they’d proven to be biologically incompatible. They’ve never mentioned the prospect of rearing young in my presence, and if it’s possible for them to produce a mini Tom or a junior B’Elanna then how hasn’t it happened already? Kahless knows, there’s been ample opportunity. I’m not prepared for this! I haven’t been consulted.

But I wasn’t consulted about the wedding either, was I? They came back from that race or rally or whatever it was betrothed and, so I gather, got Captain Janeway to perform the official proceedings in her ready room immediately. Where was my invitation?

Oh, I despair sometimes. I really do.    

* * *

 

**8.**

Klingons! Out here in the middle of the Delta Quadrant! I can scarcely believe it. They’ve blown up their own ship, Captain Janeway has been forced to take them all on board _Voyager_ as passengers, and there are now more Klingons on _Voyager_ than Starfleet officers. Apparently, these Klingons think B’Elanna and Tom’s unborn daughter is some kind of Klingon saviour. I’m sure with B’Elanna and Tom as her parents the kid will be special, but ‘saviour’ seems a bit of a stretch. But then Klingons, unlike Vulcans and targs, aren’t exactly known for their logic.

Of course, I’m not getting to meet any of my compatriots. It’s disgraceful! It’s not like I expected B’Elanna to take me out on a meet-and-greet to the mess hall or to the cargo bay (which the Klingons are using as a meeting place). But when the magnificent leader of those Klingons deigns to grace us with his presence in our quarters, she could at least introduce me!

There I was, chilling out in my usual spot on the bed, when the door mechanism of our quarters chimed. B’Elanna had been pacing the room, stopping occasionally to move around the furnishings and then to put them back exactly where they’d been in the first place. Startled by the chime, she cursed – in Klingon. (I guess she was getting herself in the right frame of mind to receive our visitor.) Then, taking one last glance around the room, her gaze locked onto mine. She scowled and approached me in two quick strides. I was unceremoniously grabbed and shoved under Tom’s bottom pillow leaving only my left eye exposed! The next thing I heard was the entrance of Kohlar, the aforementioned Klingon leader. He’s come to study the sacred scrolls with B’Elanna.

Kohlar is ... well, when he finally stepped into my field of view, the sight of him took my breath away! I’d forgotten how majestic the ridges of a full-blooded Klingon can appear. They bulge from his forehead like the western peaks of the Hamar mountains (minus the snow). His luxuriant mane of dark auburn hair puts to shame the glossy locks of those preening humans in the ancient shampoo commercials I’ve watched on Tom’s television set. And Kohlar’s scent – I didn’t realise how much I’ve missed the musky aroma of suburban Qo’noS. He smells like a true warrior – I’d follow him into battle. Heck, I’d follow him to Sto’Vo’Kor!

“Remember L’Naan, daughter of Krelik,” B’Elanna is saying now.

Kohlar has persuaded B’Elanna to make a plea for the dead. He wants her to honour her Klingon heritage. Surely I’m evidence that she does, in fact, follow Klingon traditions. Targ-keeping has been a practice on Qo’noS since the dawn of recorded history!

“Was that so difficult?” Kohlar asks.

“No, I guess not,” B’Elanna concedes. I can’t see it, but I can imagine from her tone that there’s the hint of a smile on her lips.

Kohlar nods with satisfaction, rising from the kneeling position he’d taken for the plea. “Your mother. Tell me about her.”

There’s a pause.

“She was called?” Kohlar prompts.

“Miral,” B’Elanna says cautiously.

“Miral,” Kohlar echoes, “daughter of L’Naan.”

“Though she went by Miral Torres on Kessik - even after my father left us. It was … more practical to have a human-sounding name.”

And then, to my surprise and without further persuading from Kohlar, B’Elanna begins to open up to him about her mother.

“She was very spiritual,” B’Elanna says. “She clung onto Klingon rituals like they were some kind of lifeline to her. And she wanted me to conform to her ideals. Or not just to conform but to actually _embrace_ them too.”

“And you rebelled?” Kohlar pulls out the chair opposite B’Elanna and takes the weight off his heavily booted feet.

“I wanted to fit in with the other kids in school. With our neighbours. To be more human. And that would frustrate the hell out of her and put her in a foul mood which just made me want to be in her company even less. But,” B’Elanna hesitates, gathering her thoughts, “looking back, I can see now that a lot of that anger and disapproval was really _hurt_ : hurt that she wouldn’t admit to in so many words. My father – my _human_ father – had walked out on us. She was the one bringing me up – patching my scraped knees, helping me with my schoolwork, making sure I ate properly – all on her own. And I was … trying to deny that part of myself that came from her. It had to have hurt her.”

B’Elanna rises now, crossing her arms and stepping over to the window to stare out at the stars.

“And as I got older we grew even further apart. She’d spend hours alone in the living room of our house, burning incense and chanting. But there were still times when she’d do something completely unexpected. ‘Human’ things – like… Oh! Like the day she came home with a rabbit.” Kohlar looks confused and B’Elanna turns to face him, explaining, “It’s a small Earth mammal. They’re kept as pets, though some people eat them too. And I thought at first that this rabbit was dinner. But hidden outside in the yard was a wooden rabbit hutch my mother had gotten from a work colleague.” B’Elanna snorts a laugh. “She told me the rabbit was to be ‘a lesson in responsibility’, but I think it was more than that. After my father left, I was constantly unhappy. My father had been wanting to get me a pet, but my mother had always said no. So, I think it was supposed to cheer me up.”

“And you learned that lesson?” Kohlar asks. “Of responsibility?”

B’Elanna swallows hard. “Not exactly. I let the rabbit – I called him Fluffy – out for exercise one day without making sure the gate was properly closed and, well, he ran away.”

Well, that’s Earth mammals for you! A targ would never have deserted her like that. We’re loyal beasts. Loyal to the core.

“Then a lesson was learned indeed,” Kohlar says with a chuckle.

I can count on one trotter the number of times Miral, daughter of L’Naan, has come up in B’Elanna’s chats with Tom or in her personal logs or when she’s talking to me when we’re alone. Now that I think about it, Tom seldom talks about _his_ mother either. What I’d learned up until today was that both women are strong characters, with Julia Paris the more sensitive and open-minded of the two. But from what I’m hearing now, Miral actually sounds quite reserved and even-tempered – for a Klingon. I guess that’s how B’Elanna’s father managed to live with her for as long as a decade.

Totally intrigued, I hang on B’Elanna’s every continuing word until, eventually, the conversation turns back to her ‘glorious victory’ against the Borg. Then, I switch my attention inwards as she describes her undercover mission to their monstrous cube. I don’t want to listen to it. I had nightmares for weeks after that mission, dreaming that I’d been assimilated and turned into a mindless zombie with metal tusks and no personality. My targ father was like that (excepting the metal part): mother always said he was a real bore.    

“I will leave you now,” Kohlar announces. “You should study the scrolls further in solitude. Prepare some dramatic stories. It will help to win over the council when you address them.”

She should get Tom to help her. He’s great at hyperbole!

“And, B’Elanna?” Oh, I _love_ how he says her name! Just like I say it. “Do not mention the … rabbit.”

Yes, too kriffing right.

* * *

 

**9.**

Miral is chewing on my ear. On my ear! And all Tom does about it is ask her if she’s hungry in that cutsie-silly-talking-to-a-baby tone that everyone uses to address her. What about “Don’t chew Toby, little one. You’ll hurt him.”? Or perhaps, “Aww, poor Toby. Targs are not for eating.” And she’s hardly a baby anymore. At six months old, she can crawl, she can cruise around the furniture, she can throw things…

B’Elanna is no better than Tom. B’Elanna’s father, occupying the same sofa as Tom’s parents in the living room of our Starfleet-issue apartment, is my only defender. John is concerned that Miral might swallow fluff. I’ll have him know my fur is non-shedding!

Grr. You’ve no doubt heard of a bear with a sore head. Well, I’m a targ with a sore (and soggy) ear.

I do understand, of course, why Miral finds me so irresistible. Who wouldn’t? I just wish she would pay more attention to the masses of toys she’s accumulated and be less attached to me. Though I suppose I should feel lucky. Flotter was dropped on the sidewalk to be crushed under the muddy wheels of an Andorian couple’s tandem. The custom-made Arachnia doll was lost at sea during our recent family outing to Lake Tahoe. I can’t even bring myself to think about what happened to the inflatable Trevis. His punctured and tattered remains went into our apartment’s replicator and have never been seen again!

“What is that odd little thing, anyway?” Tom’s mother queries with a frown. “A warthog?

Odd? Is she talking about me? She’s pointing at me! Miral unclamps her teeth from my ear and hugs me more tightly. B’Elanna gives her mother-in-law the evil eye.

“It’s a targ pup,” John says.

‘It’? I do have a name!

“He’s Toby the Targ, Mom,” says Tom. He sits with Miral and I on the living room carpet, where the three of us are squeezed between a large rubbery _Tyrannosaurus_ and a mound of plastic fruits and vegetables. B’Elanna occupies the armchair under the window, the wine glass in her hand nearly empty. “The classic children’s character,” Tom goes on. “Star of books and holo-novels.”

Not to mention award-winning author! And I think ‘classy’ is a better descriptor than ‘classic’. ‘Classic’ just makes me sound really old and boring.

“He’s been around for years,” Tom continues. “Since B’Elanna and I were kids. And didn’t Moira have a set of his ‘First Adventures in Algebra’ books?”

Urgh. That tedious series wasn’t my idea. The kids can blame Broht & Forrester.

“Oh. Possibly,” Julia concedes, taking a sip of her own alcoholic beverage: something purple in a tumbler with ice. “That does sound vaguely familiar.” She coughs a laugh. “You were always more obsessed with those mermaid stories. Do you remember? Your sisters told you they were real and inhabited a water world in the Delta Quadrant. You were devastated when you learned that wasn’t true.”

I think she’s attempting to lighten the mood – somebody needs to. Though B’Elanna and Tom have spent time with their parents on several occasions since _Voyager_ returned to Earth, today is the first time that B’Elanna’s father has met Tom’s mom and dad. B’Elanna’s feet were nearly wearing through the carpet before they all arrived. Tom tried to offer soothing words, but he looked kind of twitchy himself. Miral must have picked up on their unease: she screamed like a _cha’qu’_ when Tom put her down for a mid-morning nap.

Despite Julia’s absolute clanger of a faux pas (surely she knows about Monea?), B’Elanna manages a half-hearted snicker. “Mermaids, Tom?”

“I was three years old!” Tom retorts. “And, given the things we’ve seen, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if there was, in fact, a planet inhabited by mermaids in the Delta Quadrant.”

Now Tom’s father – the admiral – speaks up in support of his son. “There are far more unlikely beings than mermaids in our galaxy,” he says, nodding thoughtfully with the hint of a smile on his lips. “Even in the Alpha Quadrant.”

Quite right. Nobody believed in vampires until the crew of that first contact mission to Sanguis Major came back with enlarged teeth and an allergy to sunlight.

Miral raises the hand that isn’t smothering me to point towards the arm of the sofa, where the remote control for Tom’s television set lies in front of Owen’s elbow. The motion is accompanied by what I’ve come to think of as Miral’s ‘Give me that now!’ sound – a short, moderately loud grunt. Tom doesn’t usually let her play with this particular gadget, even though that refusal often sparks a tantrum. Today he is quick to ask his father to pass it over to the little girl. Miral drops me into her lap. She then takes great delight in pressing all the buttons on the controller, gurgling away in a happy tone and returning the enchanted smiles of all three grandparents.  

“Will she be walking unaided soon, B’Elanna?” asks Julia.

B’Elanna frowns. “I, uh, I really couldn’t say.”

“B’Elanna was running around at eight months,” John chimes in. “She could hop before her first birthday.”

“Miral is three-quarters human,” Tom reminds him from the floor.

“Of course,” Julia says, “And, by that rationale, we can expect her to be walking a little later than B’Elanna was. Is that what you’re saying, Tom?”

This little exchange is not going down well with B’Elanna. I know that look in her eyes: it’s the look that usually heralds an explosive verbal outburst with or without physical violence against inanimate objects.

“Does it matter?” Owen interjects.

The question is directed at his wife: Owen’s hand taps lightly on her knee. But it’s B’Elanna who answers with a resolute: “No. It doesn’t.”

“Kids are all so different anyway,” John says to the room in general. “Human, Klingon – they do things when they’re ready, don’t they?” Then he shifts forwards to perch on the sofa’s edge and address Miral in his own silly adult-to-baby tone. “Once you find your feet there’ll be no stopping you, will there? You’ll be running wild.”

“I remember when Tom started walking,” Julia says, sipping at her drink. “We were on a family camping trip. It was Kathleen’s idea, but Owen was more than happy to show the girls some wilderness survival skills.” Julia turns to her husband. “Weren’t you, darling?” The admiral merely nods. “One minute Tom was propped up against a giant sequoia and the next thing we knew he was toddling around our campsite with a huge grin on his face.” Julia elbows Owen. “He was so pleased with himself, wasn’t he?”

“Very pleased,” Owen echoes.

“I don’t know about you, John,” Julia goes on, “but I’ve never been all that keen on camping. I do have such fond memories of that particular vacation though. Children spend too much time at home in this modern era. It’s easy to forget how much they thrive in the great outdoors, isn’t it?”

I note that John’s face has paled. B’Elanna’s, in contrast, looks flushed, her body so tensed she might snap something. I’m not sure I can pinpoint the specific trigger, but I’m guessing John never bothered to take young B’Elanna on a vacation.

Julia, seemingly oblivious to any embarrassment amongst her listeners, turns to her daughter-in-law. “You and Tom should take Miral camping. Once she’s a little older, that is. Maybe next summer? She’s sure to be walking by then, and–”

“We’ll be travelling to Bajor next June,” Tom cuts in.

“Bajor?” From the look on Julia’s face one would think he’d said Cardassia Prime or Ferenginar. “Why Bajor?”

“We’ve been invited to a wedding,” Tom explains. “Friends from _Voyager._ And we’ll probably spend a few weeks there. It’s quite a journey, so a flying visit seems, to quote an absent friend, illogical.”

Hmmpf. As usual, nobody has told me we’re going gallivanting across the Quadrant!

“That sounds great,” John says, brightening. “I’ve been a few times on business – between the end of the Occupation and the start of the Dominion War. You should visit Musilla Province. The mountain scenery in the south is just magnificent. I’ve never been anywhere quite like it. Except maybe New Zealand. And that’s another place that’s well worth a lengthy visit. Lovely people, and the pace of life there is much slower than here in the Americas – far more relaxing. I’ve a colleague with a beach house near Auckland, if you’re interested.”  

Tom’s mouth opens then closes. B’Elanna’s empty hand has bunched into a fist. Even Miral has stopped her happy gurgling – though, I’ll admit, that may be purely coincidental. Julia, for the first time today, has nothing to offer, and Owen is scrutinising his fingernails.

“She needs a diaper change,” B’Elanna announces, dumping her wine glass on the windowsill with a clatter. Rising from her chair, she heads straight for Miral and me with outstretched hands.

“I don’t smell anything,” says Tom, sniffing the air around Miral.

Neither do I and I’ve been trapped closer to the blast zone.

“You don’t have half-Klingon nostrils,” B’Elanna bites back pointedly, glaring at her husband.

But I have sensitive targ nostrils and I smell nothing either.

“Isn’t it my turn?” Tom asks – _pleads_.

“No.”

As Miral is scooped up into B’Elanna’s arms, the little girl grabs the scruff of my neck and I am carried off with her. Reaching the smaller of the apartment’s two bedrooms, Miral and I are lowered onto the interactive play mat that she quickly tires of these days. B’Elanna stretches back to hit the door close mechanism before slumping down to join us on the mat, chin resting on the bent knees that she hugs to her chest. Eyes drooping closed, B’Elanna heaves an exasperated sigh. Miral turns me upside down and starts chewing on my left foreleg!

…

It’s starting to get dark outside by the time Julia, Owen, and John finally leave the apartment. An exhausted B’Elanna carries Miral off for her bath as soon as an equally weary Tom shuts the front door behind our departing guests. I observe from the sofa as Tom takes living room clean up duty, clearing the detritus of the impromptu evening buffet he and B’Elanna had begrudgingly – but with an admirable display of false enthusiasm that only I could see through – arranged. The guests were only invited for lunch, but they stayed for seven hours! I thought they’d never leave!

Finally done with clearing up – I’ve seen Klingon banquets that resulted in less mess – Tom picks me up and we seek out the females. They’re in the main bedroom now. B’Elanna sits semi-reclined on top of the bedcovers, her back resting against the pillows and headboard. The lights are turned down low. A drowsy Miral, up way past her typical bedtime, rests in her mother’s arms drinking from a bottle. She’s wearing her grey and white Starfleet-flight-suit-all-in-one sleeping outfit – the one that Tom thinks looks ‘super cute’ and B’Elanna has grown to find amusing.

“I thought they’d never leave,” Tom exclaims, collapsing onto the vacant side of the bed.

And now I’m dangling off the side of it, ensnared between the fingers at the end of his gangly right arm, with a lovely view of nothing but the Starfleet grey carpet!

“I don’t know how many more hints we could have dropped,” B’Elanna responds. “And my father and your mom were immune to all of them! If it wasn’t for your dad they’d still be here now, settled for the night. _Camping_ in the living room.”

Tom groans. “In fairness, B’Elanna, she couldn’t have known about your…” His grip on me tightens. “…you know.”

“Oh, I can forgive her for that one,” B’Elanna continues. “But all the other stuff? How the hell do I know when Miral will be walking or doing anything else for that matter? I’m an engineer not a fortune teller. And as for my dad,” her tone oozes bitterness now, “he has no right to talk about my childhood. No right at all. How dare he? He didn’t even get all the facts right. It was my grandmother who taught me how to tie shoelaces, not him.”

Finally remembering I exist, Tom’s elbow bends. I’m lifted up, held against his chest as he shuffles into a sitting position. His fingers relax and, finally, I can breathe again. “I don’t get it,” he says. “They were far easier to deal with when we had them visit separately. But, today … it was like my mom and your dad were competing to see who could say the most tactless thing possible. Did you see my dad’s face when yours brought up civil rights on Cardassia?”

“I knew things could get a little awkward,” B’Elanna replies, grimacing. “But I wasn’t expecting it to be _that_ bad.” She checks on Miral’s progress with the bottle. It’s empty now, and the toddler is merely gnawing on the teat as if she’s wasting away with hunger.

“You were right. We should have invited my sisters: they could have run interference. I just thought it would feel too crowded if we had any more people over.” Dropping me into his lap, Tom pats B’Elanna’s thigh and asks, “Shall I take her for a bit?”

B’Elanna nods, prying the empty bottle from the little girl’s hands. As Miral is transferred to her father’s arms, a chubby hand snatches me up. My ear soon ends up in her mouth – again! – and I’m promptly slathered in drool. Thank Kahless she doesn’t have the teeth of a fully Klingon child: I’d have long ago been dismembered!

Shuffling sideways to rest her head against Tom’s shoulder, B’Elanna’s eyes glaze over. “Sometimes I think fighting the Hirogen – or even the Borg – was easier than this.”

Tom snorts a laugh. “Me too.” And then, looking down with adoration at Miral and me, he stretches an arm up and around B’Elanna’s shoulders. “But then I think about the kind of life she would have had on _Voyager_. Not the day-to-day issues – we would have made that work. And Naomi spent her first few years without any other kids to play with and she’s turned out all right. But, the constant danger, the risks we took, the losses…”

“I know. I’m not saying I want to go back to the Delta Quadrant.”

“I should hope not.”

“Only that… I didn’t have time to mentally prepare for this. All of this. At once.”

“Neither did I,” Tom reminds her, planting a feather-light kiss on the top of Miral’s head.

And neither did I! As soon as Miral was born I found myself ejected from my spot in B’Elanna and Tom’s bed to be rehomed in the infant’s sleeping enclosure. The deafening cries and the frequent kicking and the horrible smells I’ve had to endure these past few months – it’s enough to threaten my sanity. And did I mention I’m claustrophobic? Thankfully, things have improved somewhat since she graduated from that tiny pen they replicated on _Voyager_ to a more spacious walled bed here on Earth. Although now I don’t even sleep in the same room as B’Elanna and Tom!

Teeth still latched onto my ear and with her eyelids now fully closed, Miral starts to snore. That’s another thing I have to put up with! I think I was made to suffer.

“Next time we’ll go out,” Tom suggests, lowering his voice to a murmur. “To a restaurant or for a picnic. Then we can leave when we’ve had enough.”

“Next time?” B’Elanna’s eyebrows rise. “Let’s not think about next time. I’m done with socialising for the rest of the year.”

“It’s only July.”

“I don’t care. We’ll take a shuttle out to the Kuiper belt and find a nice asteroid where the three of us can be alone.”

Three? What about me? They can’t leave me behind! I’m just as much a part of this family as Miral is. I’m B’Elanna’s lucky charm. And I was here first!

“Hmm,” Tom’s lips quirk up into a sceptical smile. “Because you love the cold so much, don’t you?”

Features softening, B’Elanna replies, “But I’d have you to keep me warm.” And then she smirks at him.

“That’s true,” Tom says, his smile broadening into a grin. “But I’ll take my mom and your dad over a frozen lump of ammonia any day, thank you very much. Oh, and talking of bad smells…” He pokes me in the head. Why is he poking me in the head? “…I think Toby needs a bath. The poor targ’s looking a bit worse for wear, don’t you think?”

And whose fault is that, hmm? Not mine, that’s for sure.

“What is that?” Tom tugs on the fur between my eyes. Ouch! He squints at the crusty orange blob now pressed between his thumb and forefinger. “Is that melted cheese?”

_Regurgitated_ melted cheese, I expect.

“He’s certainly earned his keep these last few months,” B’Elanna says, chuckling as she gently extracts me from Miral’s fingers.

Yes, I have. Finally, some recognition! Thank you!

“He can take a dip with Miral tomorrow night,” Tom says. “She’ll love that.”

Oh no. Please no! What’s wrong with a quick sonic shower? If they’re going to drown me in the bathtub then why not just chain me to a rock and throw me in the ocean and be done with it?

I’m left there sitting on the bed as Tom carries Miral to the toddler’s own room. B’Elanna changes into her nightwear before heading into the bathroom to attend to her pre-sleep rituals.

When Tom returns just a few minutes later he too starts undressing. As his discarded garments pile up on the bed, his gaze locks on to mine. Pausing in mid-sock removal, his lips curve up into a smile. “You might as well stay here for tonight, Toby. I think B’Elanna would like that.”

Oh, yes. Yes, she would! She’d love it. That’s the best news I’ve heard all day! I need a good night’s sleep. And B’Elanna definitely needs my comforting presence: she and Tom both do after the stressful day we’ve had. Miral is blissfully unaware that there was any tension. All she’ll remember of this day is that she got spoiled rotten – as usual. I’m sure she won’t miss me tonight.

Tom reaches down to position me in my old spot between the two sets of pillows at the head of the bed. It’s so wonderful to be home again! I’ve a wonderful view of the _bat’leth_ Korath gave B’Elanna which is mounted on the wall in front of me, and my nostrils are filled with the sweet scent of B’Elanna’s shampoo. If I’m lucky they’ll forget they ever evicted me and I can stay here indefinitely.

B’Elanna and Tom trade places. She climbs under the covers, almost burying herself entirely, whilst Tom goes off to brush his teeth. And then finally, a few minutes later, we’re all together, cosy and warm in the dark. Oh, I do hope Miral sleeps through until the morning. I’d hate for our peace to be disturbed tonight.

Not that B’Elanna has settled just yet. The covers shift as she rolls over to face Tom. Then Tom fidgets too.

“I don’t think I can sleep just yet,” B’Elanna murmurs. “My head is buzzing.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” Tom mumbles back.

Both wriggle about some more.

And then there are noises too, and I realise what they’re doing!  

Nooooooooooooo!


End file.
